


Lullaby of Broadway

by Falling April (ordinarygirl)



Category: Rent
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-19
Updated: 2005-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinarygirl/pseuds/Falling%20April
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark's trying to start his documentary, and it's not going so well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Close on Roger

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: ** On behalf of Alex, I would like to say that she does not own RENT. Neither do I.

**Disclaimer: ** On behalf of Alex, I would like to say that she does not own RENT. Neither do I.

**Note:** This story was written by my dear friend Alex Janes who kindly is allowing me to post this story on my account. Woo-hoo! It's a companion story to MY "Lullaby of Broadway" story, "Fade in on Mark". Read this one first.

* * *

**Lullaby of Broadway – Close on Roger**

_Written by Alex Janes_

"We begin on Christmas Eve," Mark narrated into his camera.

I looked up from the newspaper I wasn't really reading, feeling... well... I would say bitchy, but Roger Davis does not get bitchy, Maureen and people like that did. I smirked. "You've said that thirty nine times today," I informed him, amused.

Mark glared at me for a moment, then picked up his camera, stuck out his tongue, and retreated to his room, the door closing with a loud bang. I looked up at the ceiling, wondering why I had decided to push him.

It had been thirty nine times, you know. I counted. I have nothing better to do. I ticked them off mentally.

Attempt one- 7:21 AM. Standing outside the door of the loft.

Foiled when- He realized he forgot the key and I refused to let him in for twenty minutes.

Attempt two- 7:50 AM. Filming out the window.

Foiled when- I demanded he shut the window, because it was freezing.

Attempt three- 8:04 AM. Our bedroom, with me in the bed. (Yes, we share a bed- for heat purposes)

Foiled when- My mother called, ugh.

On it went, through to:

Attempt thirty eight- 7:49 PM. Sitting Indian style on our kitchen table.

Foiled when- Benny called and we barely dared to move or breath until he stopped calling seven minutes later.

Attempt thirty nine- 8:00 PM. Still sitting on the table.

Foiled when- I interrupted rudely.

Geez, took me ten minutes to go through all that. Who'd have thought of Mark as that persistent? Not me, at the very least.

I guess I don't give the boy much credit. I never have, and I've known him for... God... four years I think? Yeah, four years. Seems like so much longer. It always has, even when we moved in here, a year after we met. We were nineteen then. We're twenty two now, and it seems like we're so much older.

Because of April... and for Mark, Maureen had something to do with it. I never quite liked Maureen. She annoyed me, because she used Mark, and he never realized it, he was so infatuated. Then she left him because she 'realized her true sexuality'- bull, she knew and we all knew, except Mark, all along that she was bi.

I sighed, laying back on the couch and thinking. I hadn't been letting myself think a lot, but now I did. About how mean I'd been to Mark lately.

I mean, Mark was a good guy. The kid had been my best friend since he lied to his music teacher at a community center about me being part of his class. It was my only way to get lessons, and I never felt like I repaid him for it, because music is one of the big things in my life.

He's pretty scrawny, but he can take care of himself. He's not a tough guy, but he know his way around the town, and how to do what he needs to. He's got these big dreams, too.

Dreams I'd been crushing under my heel since April killed herself.

Honestly, it was sad. Mark was one of the people who'd always been there for me. Whenever I thought of giving up music, whenever I got upset, he was there with a hug and something to say to make me feel better. How did I repay him? I got moody and ignored him, except to step on his career.

Gee, some friend, huh?

_I should go apologize_, I thought. But, stubbornly, I laid on the couch, morbidly letting my thoughts continue.

Even throughout this long depression after April's death, he was there for me as I ignored him except to yell at him and accuse him of everything. Actually, at first, I was pretty sane. I think I was still in shock for a while. She killed herself in mid-June, and even though it was hot, after I found her in the tub, I couldn't get warm. I wouldn't show the others, but I'd be freezing- when I was in my room, I'd gather all the blankets I could get and put on all my jackets one on top of the other and try to get warm. It never worked.

I didn't sleep, either. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her note.

_Roger- _

_We've got AIDS. _

_Love you, baby. Goodbye..._

All written in her damnably neat, small handwriting.

So for just over two weeks, I didn't sleep, I barely ate, I gave Mark and Maureen fake smiles and saw how confused and worried they looked when they thought I wasn't looking. I always was looking, though- to make sure they weren't looking too closely at me.

It all kind of came crashing down on the Fourth of July. I'm not sure why then. I think because it was always one of those odd things about April- she was kind of, 'eh, yeah, I'm American, whoop-de-doo' most of the year, but come Fourth of July, she was bursting with American pride. I think part of it was the fireworks. She loved them, and I loved looking at her lit up by them.

I hadn't touched the drugs since April died, but that day, I couldn't stop myself. Literally- I didn't stop when I knew I should.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital bed. A few nurses and doctors were swarming around my bed, talking in low voices about the patient (which I didn't realize was myself), and I was feeling worse than ever.

And Mark was sitting next to me, his hand grasping mine tight as he could get without hurting me, singing under his breath to himself as he rocked back and forth, eyes closed tight. "_The band begins to go to town, and everyone goes crazy..._"

Later I found out from Maureen that he had threatened the doctor with physical harm to let him in. He'd been hysterical, she reported when she filled me in. _Scared out of his mind... We were all upset, but Mark was crazy, he kept muttering he thought he'd lost you. And singing that damn song._

That damn song. The one he'd been singing when I woke up.

_Lullaby of Broadway-_ the old classic, from _42nd Street_, that old musical. Mark loved that song. He said it sort of summed up how he felt about our lives and his art- how we all felt, really, about our lives and our art. Whenever me or Maureen started to feel frustrated with the Bohemian life, whenever we wanted to quit, he'd hold us on the couch, rock us back and forth, and sing that song.

You have to understand something. Maureen and I are both great singers, not to brag- that's our branch of the arts (part of her branch, at least) and we have to be good at it, so we are. Benny never let us hear him sing, but if he was good, he would've bragged- it's safe to assume he's not. Collins had a horrible voice, extremely deep and you could tell it'd be nice, except he was one of those kids who had no interest in singing except to belt out songs on the radio in that way that damages your voice when he was a teen, so it was scratchy and untrained. He didn't care, though- he still loved to sing Christmas carols, or even old favorites that came on the radio from time to time, and shrugged his voice off as one of his weak points. He was that easygoing about everything, so it came as no surprise.

Mark's voice wasn't the greatest either. He'd had very little, very unprofessional training from his classes at the community center, all three weeks that centered on voice (six classes in all), and whatever they taught him he obviously forgot, because he didn't do anything the 'right' way. He just did what he felt like. His voice was rough, and deeper than mine (which surprised me when I first heard him sing), but something about it was comforting. It soothed me to hear him singing and bravely attempting to hit the notes of whatever song it was, or humming a song off-key. But nothing soothed me more than that song.

Thinking of all this accomplished nothing more than making me feel a lot worse than I already did. I sighed and slowly stood up, deciding I had to tell Mark I'm sorry- at least for interrupting his film. Silently, I made my way towards the bedroom door and cracked it open.

"Mark?" I called softly.

My reply was his soft, steady breathing. I opened the door wider to find Mark curled in a ball around my pillow, sound asleep. He looked lost, scared- hurt. I wondered what he'd been thinking of before he fell asleep.

I wondered if I could help him feel better.

"_Come on along and listen to, the lullaby of Broadway"_

I looked around in confusion, wondering where the voice had come from. It hadn't been Mark- he was definitely asleep, and anyway, it wasn't his voice. This voice wasn't just untrained, it was scratchy and unused and ignored.

"_The hip hurray and ballyhoo, the lullaby of Broadway"_

It was familiar, though. Really familiar. I listened closely.

Holy fuck. That was my voice. Unused for the longest time, almost painful, but... my voice.

Tentatively, I sang the next line- softly, so I didn't wake Mark.

"_The rumble of a subway train, the rattle of the taxis"_

Now that I was paying attention, it was more like my usual voice. Softer, more smooth, flowing easier. I fell silent, thinking about not much, but Mark twitched slightly when I did so, so I went back to singing, approaching the bed.

"_The daffodils who entertain, at Angelo's and Maxi's"_

I sat on the edge of the bed and placed my hand on his back, which was now facing me, and rubbed it softly through the thin shirt. I'm sorry, Mark, I thought, but I knew, somehow, that singing him this song said it better than I ever could.

"_When Broadway babies say goodnight, it's early in the morning _

_Manhattan babies don't sleep tight, until the dawn"_

I would've stayed there, rubbing his back and singing to him, had an idea not popped into my head- Mark wanted to see me happy, and he wanted his film to turn out special...

I knew what always used to make me happy. And I knew what would be special.

I stood up and creeped to the corner of the room, grabbed my guitar case, and snuck out to the living room. Taking a deep breath, I opened the latches and lifted the lid. My guitar stared back at me, untouched for so very long, covered in a thin layer of dust but otherwise just like it was a year ago.

I lifted I it out gently, perched on the table, and strummed a chord. An odd noise came out, and I winced. Dammit- I hadn't thought about tuning it. Annoyed, I strummed the chord again and began to fiddle with the tuners.

A few moments later, Mark came shuffling out of his room. When he saw me with the guitar, he stopped dead in his tracks. I looked up and didn't say anything, but I glanced at the camera and motioned with my chin towards the tripod that was still set up.

He smiled, and set the camera up. "We begin on Christmas Eve," he was narrating again at 8:58, and I may not have been the one behind or even in front of the camera right then, but I knew this time, it was right.


	2. Fade in on Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: ** Don't own RENT, don't own the song "Lullaby of Broadway".

**Disclaimer: ** Don't own RENT, don't own the song "Lullaby of Broadway".

**Author's Note:** This is a companion story to the other "Lullaby of Broadway" story ("Close on Roger") written by my darling friend Alex Janes, who has agreed to let me post it up under my name. She's awesome, boys'n'girls. Read "Close on Roger" first… it was written first and it just works better that way, I think.

* * *

**Lullaby of Broadway - Fade in On Mark**

It was going to be my masterpiece. I don't know why I thought that, but I did, and I was prepared to give it my all. I wouldn't give up on it, despite the fact that I would probably want to before the week was out.

"We begin on Christmas Eve," I told my camera.

"You've said that thirty nine times today," came a voice from behind me. Roger, my roommate, best friend, and the most annoying guy on the planet sometimes. I turned around from my seat on the kitchen table and glared at him for a minute. Then, in a fit of childish rage, I hopped off the table, stuck my tongue out at him, and stalked into the bedroom, slamming the door as hard as I dared - the hinges were loose, after all.

I'd been trying to start this stupid film of mine all day, and things kept interrupting me. Roger was right, of course: I had said that line thirty nine times. And each time I started, something came up, interrupted, came to my attention, or whatever the hell that something did to stop the filming.

Attempt one - 7:21 AM. Standing outside the door of the loft.

Foiled when - I realized I forgot the key and Roger refused to let me in for twenty minutes.

Attempt five - 8:57 AM. Sitting on the floor in the middle of the loft.

Foiled when - The toilet overflowed and the water started coming out of the bathroom.

Attempt fourteen - 10:42 AM. On the roof of the building.

Foiled when - Sleet started coming down. Roger got a kick out of that one.

Attempt twenty two - 3:15 PM. Outside the building.

Foiled when - Roger dropped a snowball (made from the slushy snow that was on the roof from when the sleet had changed to snow) on my head from the loft.

Attempt thirty nine- 8:00 PM. Sitting on the kitchen table.

Foiled when- Roger decided to be an ass.

I set my camera on the dresser and flopped onto the bed. As angry as Roger made me sometimes - not thinking about me, just sort of wallowing in self pity and trying to make everyone else miserable – he was still my best friend. And I could understand why he was bitter. Having your girlfriend's suicide note consist of "I love you, we've got AIDS, goodbye" is not the most uplifting of experiences. And he really loved that girl. I closed my eyes and thought back a few months, to when April had died. It had been in mid-June, and Roger had been strangely calm about it all. The AIDS, the suicide, everything. It was completely opposite of what was normal, but everything was wrong side up back then. Collins had just left for M.I.T., and Maureen and I were in the middle of a fight about whether or not to have meat in the loft, of all things. Then the fourth of July came.

I never knew why Benny came over that day, but if he hadn't... I curled up on the bed, clinging to my pillow and regretting thinking about it. I had been so scared, so helpless to help him.

Benny had a key, obviously, and had let himself in. He heard something down in the factory area on his way up and went to check it out. About a minute later, he burst into the loft, on his cell phone with 911, and telling Maureen and I that Roger had OD'd downstairs.

I pretty much panicked. Once he was in the hospital and stable, I wanted to get in his room, so I'd be there when he woke up. I mean, no one wants to wake up in a hospital room without a familiar face there, do they? The stupid doctors, of course, didn't seem to feel the same way, but I managed to...er...CONVINCE them to let me in without them calling security.

I don't really remember what I did as I waited for him to open his eyes. Despite the reassurances of the doctors that he was fine, I wasn't going to believe it until I saw him awake. I think I was singing that song when he woke up - Lullaby of Broadway.

I always loved that song. I used to sing it to Maureen and Roger when they were down in the dumps and wanted to give up their dreams. But they had so much talent, how could I let them do that?

I think I must have drifted off to sleep, but it was funny - I could have sworn that I dreamed Roger was singing Lullaby of Broadway to me. Of course, that was silly - Roger was definitely in a bad mood, and anyway, he hadn't sung since April died.

I was startled back to the waking world by a rather sour sound, followed by a steady thrumming, although the sound kept changing in pitch. I shuffled out of the room, trying to think what it could be, and disregarding the little voice in my mind that was screaming what I KNEW it was. Because it couldn't be.

Roger was sitting on the table, tuning his guitar. I looked at him, shocked, for a long moment, but he nodded in the direction of my camera. I smiled crookedly and (after running my fingers through my hair, to make sure it wasn't TOO mussed for the camera) started filming yet again. And this time, it would be perfect.

"We begin on Christmas Eve..."


End file.
